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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659243">Commonwealth Cryptid Club</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe'>BeeBeMe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:14:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A clockwork detective, a supernatural marksman - a match made in heaven, if they don't send each other to hell first.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In which the Mysterious Stranger has lived 200 years without socialization, Nick just wants to catch a serial killer, and they both end up finding more in common than they'd like to admit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mysterious Stranger/Nick Valentine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Commonwealth Cryptid Club</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There are only three (3) Nick/Mysterious Stranger fics on Ao3 and I <i>need</i> to change that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The man was falling.</p>
<p>The ground never came.</p>
<p>It was stupid, really. One misplaced footstep. One moment of blissful ignorance. One yell, one crunch of unstable ground beneath his feet. Then, nothing.</p>
<p>The man's mother told him to stay away. She'd been right, as always.</p>
<p>The Wind passed by his fingertips and through his hair. The ground never came, but the Wind stayed close. Inky darkness before his eyes stayed whether they were closed or open. Eventually, he couldn't tell which was which.</p>
<p>The ground never came.</p>
<p>It felt like years. It felt like longer than he'd been alive. Was he still alive? He couldn't tell, just like the difference between eyes closed or open. Lines blurred, turning into a slurry.</p>
<p>The Wind stayed, whistling in his ears.</p>
<p>Sometimes, he could hear the Wind speak. </p>
<p><i>Poor child,</i> the Wind whispered. If he focused for a little too long, he could feel lips brushing his ear. Gentle caresses on his arms, hands on his hips, thumbs two stinging points of contact on his lower back. His clothes billowed, fanned out beneath him. The hands stayed. His head fit into the crook of a neck.</p>
<p><i>Lost and alone. How long have you been here? You are exceptionally fortunate I found you.</i> Warm hands on his cheek, tilting his head upwards. (Up? Down? How could he know?) His eyes opened, and nothing changed. Blackness and Wind. Words in his head. How long had it been? Why wasn't he dead?</p>
<p>
  <i>Death is not something one like you deserve. So special, my child. Exceptional, in every sense of the word. So brave, so cunning. It would be a shame, to lose such a thing to a fall.</i>
</p>
<p>"Help me," the words felt like gravel. It had been so long since he'd spoken. Why bother? The Wind couldn't answer. The Wind couldn't speak. The Wind whisked a tear away from his cheek, warm hands smoothing over where it had rested. It was fruitless, he knew it in the pit of his stomach. Still, he talked. "Please, help. I'm scared. I don't want to die."</p>
<p>The air laughed. The sound vibrated through him, rattling inside of his ribcage. A ragged sob forced its way from his throat. He didn't want to die. He'd do anything, just to feel again. Just to have ground beneath his feet. Just to live.</p>
<p><i>Anything?</i> The air asked.</p>
<p>"Yes," he replied.</p>
<p>Then, the man woke up.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> • • • </p>
</div>The Stranger was a stranger to himself from the very moment he awoke. Nothing in his mind but a purpose. Protect, shoot, kill, watch - easy enough. He found his Vault Dweller, confused and frightened. The Stranger didn't know why this one, out of all people, needed his protection, and he didn't think to ask. The Wasteland was an unforgiving place, and his Vault Dweller had a gift for falling into trouble. One day it'd be super mutants, the next it would be raiders. It kept his mind from wandering to trivial things. The Stranger's pistol dealt with them all in the same way. One pull of the trigger, one bullet, one body.<p>That was his purpose, and he took pride in it. </p>
<p>The Vault Dweller was a scared, scrawny man - jumping at his shadow and being surprised when it jumped back. The Stranger couldn’t relate. He had his job and the Wind at his back. Arms on his shoulder, grabbing at his elbow, leading him along after his Vault Dweller, never letting him stray more than necessary. Odd, considering the Vault Dweller didn’t mind when he left. Less odd when he realized that the Vault Dweller didn’t see him at all.</p>
<p>There were some moments, right after the trigger was pulled and their last opponent fell, that the Vault Dweller would look at him. <i>See</i> him. The Stranger quickly decided that he didn’t like these moments. The feeling of being watched skittered down his back like so many radroaches. It crushed his chest just as easily as a super mutant and sent his heart racing like the sight of a raider’s gun. So, he got very good at disappearing.</p>
<p>The seconds after a kill were the most vulnerable, not that his Vault Dweller made any move to harm him. There were plenty of attempts to <i>talk</i> to him, sure, and the Stranger felt like he’d rather be shot. Being spotted was <i>wrong,</i> and the Wind didn’t care to disagree. It steered him out and away, circling around until his Vault Dweller’s brief awareness dissipated. And it <i>always</i> dissipated. By the time he was back, the Stranger was a shadow once more. No one saw him, and he cared not to be seen. </p>
<p>Eventually, his purpose came to a close. The Vault Dweller had his chip, handing it over without a fight, and didn’t engage when the others within the vault threw him into the Wasteland once again. The Stranger wished he would have. After everything, his Vault Dweller deserved a place to call home, and he was all-too-willing to give it up without a fight. The Stranger wanted to fight for him - that was when he knew something was wrong.</p>
<p>Caring was not his purpose. To be kind was not his goal. The vault had its water, his Vault Dweller eventually found a home, and the Stranger had to leave. The Wind turned cold, pushing at his back and tugging at his fingers. It was not his place, and it was not supposed to hurt. </p>
<p>It hurt, and the Stranger did not know what to do.</p>
<p>Out into the wilderness, then. Begging the nothingness to soothe it all away. Long days spent under the sun’s relentless glare, long nights clinging to desert stones as they leaked their heat back into the darkness. Eventually, even the Wind left. The air in his lungs was stagnant. Rain fell, the nights became colder, and he shouldered it all. He didn't need to sleep or eat. His body was indistinguishable from dust beneath his feet. He needed to be reminded of his purpose. To be set back on the right path. To fall again, if that was required.</p>
<p>Flashing like lightning, rumbling against him like thunder, the Wind returned and steered him to his next purpose.</p>
<p>The Vault Dweller’s son. His Vault Dweller had died. The Stranger willed the ache away and tried to not see his face in this child’s eyes. His smile was the same, a fact he couldn't help but notice. A little braver, a little wilder. The Stranger felt grateful that his pistol had no need for ammo or he would have run out a very long time ago. The Son wanted to help, wanted to do good. He was <i>good.</i> The Stranger tried not to notice. He would be prepared this time. Eventually, the Son’s purpose would be filled, and the Stranger would leave. Just as the sun set and the moon rose, he would be alone again.</p>
<p>To his surprise, it didn’t hurt any less.</p>
<p>It <i>ached.</i> The stomach he didn’t know he had felt hollow. His ribs felt pulled on, his chest compressed and wouldn’t stop feeling so damn <i>empty</i>. Every step away from the Son - happier than his Vault Dweller, having his home accept him, unlike his father at the vault - hurt. The dark, oppressive storm that ravaged his body grew in intensity. The Wind saw it and was disgusted by it.</p>
<p>The Wind pushing him away from the Son was ripping out his heart. A sickening sense of frustration and fury settled in the blank space where it should have been. It was unfair. Nothing would be better than this.</p>
<p><i>That isn’t what you said,</i> the Wind reminded him, and he wished to cry tears that his body couldn’t produce.</p>
<p>Much, much longer this time. The Wind steered him in the right direction and left once again. Northeast, over towering mountains and across vast plains, following the rising sun. His feet didn’t ache, his body didn’t complain, his mind rebelled and imploded and tore itself apart. His heels fell one in front of the other.</p>
<p>He wanted to go home, but he hadn’t the slightest clue where that was.</p>
<p>Not northeast, at least he was sure of that. Nothing could await him there, so far from his Vault Dweller and his Son. So painfully far from everything he'd ever known.</p>
<p>Another vault dweller, much younger than his Vault Dweller or his Vault Dweller’s son. A child, especially when compared to himself. To think, he thought the Son was reckless. This one, embroiled with youth and anger and desperation - the Stranger had almost lost him more times than he wanted to remember. Yet, the Lone Wanderer, the moniker he had taken up, believed it was all worth it. The Wind agreed. Who was the Stranger to argue?</p>
<p>It always seemed to come back to water, though that wasn’t surprising considering how reliant humans were on that particular resource. Not a chip this time, at least. The Stranger found himself lucky - the constant reminder of his Vault Dweller would have hurt. </p>
<p>...He couldn’t help but wonder where Vault Dweller’s Son’s daughters or sons were. Hope was a foreign emotion, something he didn’t interact with often. Still, he hoped that they were happy and safe. That was all he asked.</p>
<p>
  <i>You’ve asked much more than that, my child. Don’t you remember?</i>
</p>
<p>He didn’t, but the point was moot. He had his purpose and a direction, he shouldn’t desire much more. It should be enough. Right up until the end, it was. </p>
<p>The Lone Wanderer died, alone, in the control room. Radiation was not something that could be shot, and the Lone Wanderer hadn’t fired his gun first. All the Stranger could do was watch helplessly as the child entered the room. Stare, disbelieving, as his body went still. The people of the Capital Wasteland rejoiced. The Stranger felt numb.</p>
<p><i>They succeeded - you succeeded. Their purpose is fulfilled.</i> It was true. The Wind was always correct. It didn’t feel like a success. It felt like sickening failure and loss. He was supposed to keep the Wanderer <i>alive.</i> The Wanderer deserved to see the fruits of their labor, to celebrate and smile and fall in love and die a peaceful death befreit of regrets.</p>
<p>Everything the Stranger couldn’t do, the Lone Wanderer deserved. Now, neither of them would get any of it. Not even a proper burial, or the chance to return to the ground. The Wanderer’s body would remain untouched, and the Stranger would find another purpose.</p>
<p>He didn’t want to, but he didn’t have a choice.</p>
<p>The Wind pushed him on, the Stranger had no idea how long it had been. His feet led him southwest, back into the unknown. Another purpose, far from his Vault Dweller and the Son and the Lone Wanderer. Something new. Something he wasn’t attached to. Something he could distance himself from. Set himself free. </p>
<p>He met the Courier at her grave. She hadn’t fired, didn’t have the option with her hands tied behind her back, and the Stranger could have sworn that her eyes met his as the bullet lodged into her head. A purpose lost before it even began. The Wind told him to wait as the man in the checkered suit left.</p>
<p>Not dead, though she really should have been. Bullets pried from her head, life returning to her eyes. The Stranger watched it all, hands clasped behind his back and feet barely moving from their position beside the Courier’s bed. Revenge - a different motive than what he was used to, but perhaps different would be better. Perhaps she killed for fun, perhaps she was cruel. Perhaps she’d be a person that the people he'd loved would have hated.</p>
<p>She was good, blindingly so, and the Stranger resented her for it. Resented himself for caring. Resented himself for doing <i>exactly</i> what the Wind had told him not to do. His purpose was to protect. His purpose was to ensure that his charges completed their goals. His purpose was not to care or love or feel happy when she succeeded. He wasn’t supposed to be proud or feel worried or desire to shake her damn shoulders until she gained some sense. </p>
<p>Yet, when he pulled the trigger and came into existence for those scant seconds, The Courier - his Courier - would smile and thank him even when he disappeared yet again. He wanted to tell her that she was welcome, but the words wouldn’t come. She would not have heard them anyway, but he couldn’t help but feel like it would matter in some small way. </p>
<p>This time, when his Courier succeeded and the Wind beckoned, he thought he was going to die. </p>
<p>Bullets passed through him, super mutants could squeeze all they wanted, and his body would simply accommodate the extra pressure. He could not fall, he could not break. He couldn’t die, despite what he felt; his body would live on for his next purpose. He had no say in the matter.</p>
<p>East again, then.</p>
<p>The winters were still cold and wet, the summers filled with storms and heat. So different from his Vault Dweller’s home. Alien compared to the Courier’s. He kept low and bided his time, awaiting the moment the Wind (and his purpose) arrived again, knowing exactly where it would lead. Another soul destined for wonderful things. Another Vault Dweller, another Wanderer. The Stranger would protect them, and then they’d leave, just like all the rest.</p>
<p>Then, he discovered the synths.</p>
<p>More like the synths discovered him. They could <i>see,</i> even without the Stranger drawing attention to himself. Mobs of pallid, white faces. Glowing amber eyes, strong hands, robotic voices screeching static and garbled words. It was easy to flee from them, to escape the bounds of their attention, but impossible to hide. </p>
<p>For the first time, the Stranger was scared for himself. He had to be crafty, to play on their level. The synths were single-minded and easily fooled. Odd, but not insurmountable. At least their more-developed brethren didn’t share the same awareness, thank goodness. The Stranger learned and adapted, changed to the situation, and persisted. Perhaps the Courier would have been proud of them. He couldn't help but think of her and her tumultuous relationship with stealth and subterfuge. The Wind paid his achievements no mind when it came to him again.</p>
<p>The Wind leads him to another vault, almost synonymous with death and pain and betrayal at this point. A scared, shivering woman, dog tags and a ring on a chain around her neck. Face too smooth, body too curved. Unused to and unwelcome in this harsh wasteland, and perhaps this was his punishment - tasked to protect more and more danger-prone targets until his soul simply gave way.</p>
<p>Still, he persisted. </p>
<p>He had to be guileful now. His presence drew the synths like moths to a flame. He could not risk endangering the Sole Survivor’s life. Unlike her, he was determined to keep her safe. Even when she risked her life for some random settlers - holed up like rats in a trap. Even when she insisted on taking on a vault full of armed men with only a dog at her back. Even then, he watched and protected. A silent shadow, a guardian angel - if he wanted to be dramatic.</p>
<p>He rarely wanted anything, these days.</p>
<p>Halfway through their goal, listening to one of the armed men be taunted by their target. The Stranger was certain that no synths patrolled the area inside - they would have been killed by now, or the Triggermen wouldn’t be here. If they had been in the vault, the victor was clear with every flesh-and-blood human that the Vault Dweller stumbled upon. Even so, he kept to the shadows with a wall to his back. Slithering on quiet feet between boxes and pillars and drifting through rooms. These people would not see him unless the Sole Survivor required his help. </p>
<p>Imagine his surprise, when the doors to Vault 111’s Overseer’s office swung open to reveal glowing amber eyes. The visceral fear of being seen, creeping down his back and settling in his trigger finger. The Sole Survivor didn’t shoot, so neither did he - even when those piercing eyes met his own. They raked over his face, down to his chest, over to the gun in his hand. The Stranger was pinned, unable to move as a familiar panic settled in where his stomach should be.</p>
<p>Their target was a synth. A synth that not only saw the Stranger, not only had the faculties to think about him but <i>recognized</i> him as well.</p>
<p>
  <i>”You!”</i>
</p>
<p>If asked, the Stranger would say that he stood his ground. Those centuries of killing and sneaking and being invincible hardened him to one person- one <i>machine’s</i> scrutiny. He was the Mysterious Stranger - ghost, cryptid, killer. He would not balk, he would not stand down.</p>
<p>In reality, the Stranger had never run so fast in his long, miserable life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The MS: Man I wish I could form connections with the people around me<br/>Someone, looking at the MS for one (1) second:<br/>The MS: lol nevermind cya</p>
<p>Feedback is always appreciated! I know I'm going a different direction from the usual, suave Mysterious Stranger - and don't worry! He's still a smooth, domineering weirdo, but he also hasn't had a conversation with another person... ever lol.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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